


at candle glow and mistletoe

by tomorrows



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: All I Want For Christmas Is Love Actually, Alternate Universe, Christmas, Fluff, I don't even celebrate Christmas tf, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:45:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2787176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrows/pseuds/tomorrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“I swear to God,” he mumbles under his breath as he squeezes them on, “if this is all a ploy to kidnap me, I’m going to feel no guilt for keeping your jacket.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Just trust me, alright?” Louis holds his hand out for Harry once the other man straightens up, his soft face flushed in a way that only the holiday rush can do. “I couldn’t hurt you if I tried, Harry Styles.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Harry places a tender hand over Louis'. “Okay,” he answers, a little breathless. “I trust you.”</em>
</p><p>an au where louis is santa, harry is a single dad, and niall is the worst reindeer to ever exist</p>
            </blockquote>





	at candle glow and mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> listen... just work with me here, alright?
> 
> all my love to kate and leni who've gotten me through finals week in one piece (mostly) ♥
> 
> [tumblr](http://www.tornorrows.tumblr.com)

There are a lot of things that Louis has learned in his time as Santa Claus (so: a couple thousand years). The first is that any home that does not put out milk with the cookies is not a home worth trusting. The second is that orphanages _always_ , one hundred percent of the time, make the best gingerbread cookies. The third – and probably the most important – is that delivering Christmas gifts to a few billion kids in one night is a very exhausting task and no feeling compares to reaching the last house on the list.

England is absolutely freezing when Louis parks his sleigh on the tiny, snow-covered roof of a single home on 4 Happily Street, London, home to one Esra Styles, the lucky child who gets to declare herself number one on Santa’s Nice List.

“Alright, lads,” Louis claps his hands and hops off the sleigh. “I’m gonna pop in real quick and grab some snacks for the road. Try your best to not fall asleep and slip off the roof this time.” He turns to Niall and puts on his Serious Face. “We absolutely cannot have a repeat of Christmas ’09, you dolt.”

Niall rolls his big, brown eyes, too exhausted to truly put up a fight. “It wasn’t even that serious, mate.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to the Jones triplets,” says Louis. “They’re still telling their classmates they saw Santa’s reindeer hanging off their roof.”

Liam, the head reindeer at the front, shakes his head. It lets out a jingle from the bells on his antlers. “I cannot believe we’ve still got this job,” he says in dismay.

“What _I_ still don’t understand is why you guys didn’t just fly back up on the roof? You three idiots just _hung there_ clinging onto the gutters.”

Zayn, the reindeer at the far end, kicks his leg out in impatience, sending snow at Louis’ direction. “Oi,” he grumbles, “can you get on with it already? We haven’t got all bloody day, _Mr. Claus_. Some of us have places to be.”

“Like a barn in the North Pole, right?” Louis says sarcastically (it earns him more snow in the face), but he grabs his bag from the backseat of the sleigh and pulls Esra’s gift out anyway. It’s probably the smallest one of the year, Louis realizes; just a small envelope and nothing more. Because Esra Styles is this year’s Nicest Child in the World, Louis is not allowed to know what her gift is. Which, in Louis’ opinion, totally defeats the purpose of being Santa, but who’s he to complain about thousands of years’ worth of tradition.

(He’s bloody Santa Claus, that’s who he is! Why _doesn’t_ he get a say in that? Where’s his treat for not giving in and being nosy even _once_ his entire career? This entire holiday is a farce.)

His internal monologue is cut short by Zayn clearing his throat. “Any day now, Lou,” the reindeer reminds.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Louis huffs. “ _Jesus_. No patience, any of you.”

And just as his imminent-Liam-speech senses begin to tingle, Louis dashes away and jumps down the chimney of the Styles’ house. He’s lucked out this time; contrary to popular belief, there really aren’t that many chimneys to slide down when the special day comes along. There are lots of huts to tiptoe into and apartment windows to crawl through, but not as many chimneys as Louis would like. They leave him with a bit of a cough after, but the adrenaline that pulses through this veins as he slides down is always worth it.

Louis falls to his feet with practiced ease and steps out of the fireplace. He’s met with a small living room, walls lined with framed photos, quilts thrown over the couches, golden lights strewn along the edges of the room. It isn’t until he turns around that he sees the tree in the corner and actually gasps aloud in surprise. It’s much bigger than he expected from such a tiny household (with only one child and a single parent). The tree easily takes up a quarter of the room, and apparently the Styles family have gone for a blue color scheme this year, because all the baubles and ornaments are different shades of the ocean and the skies; everything from sunrise to dusk and in between. It’s breathtaking how intricately it’s designed and something in Louis knows instantly that there must be a lot of love in this small family’s home, here in the quaint suburbs of London’s 4 Happily Street. (If the goosebumps on his arms are anything to go by, at least.)

“ _Shit_ ,” Louis breathes out, suddenly overwhelmed. He takes a few steps until his knees hit the back of the couch and he plops down, right in front of the towering Christmas tree.

Even the star at the top is a soft baby blue, he notices. It reminds him of the sky on a cloudless day in spring.

Louis leans against the back of the couch, knowing in the back of his mind that he _should_ just set Esra’s gift by the tree, grab the cookies, and return to the North Pole, but he can’t. Something keeps him glued to the couch; something keeps his eyes glued to the cerulean lights of the Styes’ Christmas tree. He isn’t even sure how long he’s sat there, completely still – a rarity, for Louis – until he hears a quiet squeak of _“Oops”_ from behind.

Needless to say, Louis nearly snaps his neck turning around.

To his surprise, however – because _of course_ the Styles family is just a bag of wonders – by the living room entrance doesn’t stand little five year old Esra Styles. Instead, there stands a man – the poorest excuse for a ‘man’ that Louis has ever had the gift of seeing, honestly; he looks more like a baby deer in headlights.

The man – _Little Deer_ , Louis, decides to call him – stands there in a pair of bright yellow pajamas (are those _bananas_? with _Santa hats_ on?). He has a head of unruly, sleep-messy curls and wide, green eyes that Louis can see even from across the room. His lanky figure is drowned in golden hues from the fairy lights, but Louis thinks that given better lighting, Little Deer is probably shockingly pale.

Little Deer is also absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful.

_“Hi.”_

Little Deer blinks; so slowly, eyelashes fanning his cheeks like an art. (Louis will deny the breathy sigh that escapes his lips until his dying moment; he is a respectable man, damnit, this is no time to ruin his street cred.)

“Please tell me I’m dreaming,” Little Deer croaks out in a tiny whisper. “If you’re here to take something, please, I’m—”

“ _Take something_?” Louis quickly interrupts in confusion. “Why would I be _taking_ something? Oh, no – oh my God.” And the realization quickly dawns on him, how suspicious is must look to have a strange man dressed in a red costume, sitting in your living room in the middle of the night. “You must think I’m some sort of burglar!” Somehow he manages to get his limbs to comply and he jumps off the couch. “No, no, I’m not here to take anything, I swear,” he quickly explains. He takes a few steps toward Little Deer, but the poor thing only moves away, undoubtedly still shaken. The terrified look in his big, green eyes crushes Louis like nothing before and he finds himself needing to comfort, instinctively wanted to reach out and hold this boy in his arms.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, I promise,” he apologizes in his softest whisper.

“Why should I trust you?” Little Deer responds quickly, still standing his ground. It is his house, after all.

_Because I’m half your size? Because I’m dressed in this ridiculous red outfit from head to toe? Because I’ve seen billions of faces in all the years I’ve been alive and nothing has ever compared to yours?_

Nope, definitely not that last one.

“Because I’m Santa,” Louis finds himself confessing.

There’s a moment where he genuinely thinks Little Deer might burst out laughing, but it’s a testament to his impeccable manners that he instead takes a step toward Louis and tilts his head to the side, fear washing away from his features and overtaken by confusion. He furrows his brows in the most wonderfully childish manner, thick, pink lips pouting angelically. “You don’t _look_ like Santa,” Little Deer accuses.

“Missing about two hundred pounds and beard, aren’t I?” Louis grins despite himself.

“Yes.” Little Deer nods his head, taking this issue of everything he’s ever been told about Santa Claus being a complete lie very seriously. “You are missing very much a lot, Sir.”

“On behalf of the entire holy day of Christmas, Mr. Styles, I do apologize for not living up to your expectations.”

Little Deer waves Louis’ apology off without regard. “How do I know this isn’t some hallucination and you aren’t really my older sister trying to get more subscribers on YouTube?” he demands.

“Um,” Louis stutters, biting on his lip. He’s never had to _prove_ himself to humans before – mostly because he’s never been caught by a human before. Just his luck, he thinks, that fate would have him ruining his clean streak with this here, Mr. Little Deer.

And then it clicks.

“I’ve got me reindeer on the roof, if you don’t believe me.”

“Reindeer?” Little Deer repeats. “On _my_ roof?”

“Yes.”

“Like Rudolph and Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen and Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen?”

 _So he knows his holiday tales_.

Louis shakes his head again, a little giggle escaping him. He almost misses the way Little Deer’s eyes soften at the sound, his cheeks going a warm pink.

“More like Zayn, Niall, and Liam; the Trio From Hell,” he corrects.

Little Deer’s pout deepens. “Are you allowed to say h-e-double-hockey-sticks as Santa? That seems a bit naughty, Sir.”

“I’m not ‘ _Sir_ ,’” Louis groans out of habit, “I’m just _Louis_.”

“I thought you were Santa.”

“Oh, don’t get so caught up in the legality of it, Little Deer! C’mon, lemme prove to you—”

He’s already reaching out to grab the other man’s wrist and drag him out the front door when he’s stopped mid-track by a confused, _“Little Deer?”_

Louis stills, and this time it’s him going wide-eyed and pale. _Buggering fuck_ , how the hell did he manage to say that aloud?

Louis’ eyes snap to Little Deer – fuck, he seriously needs to stop saying that – and he doesn’t think he’s ever been more embarrassed in the thousands of years he’s been alive.

“I just – I didn’t know your name, so I’ve been calling you—”

“ _Little Deer_ ,” the other man finishes for him softly. Despite the crushing embarrassment, a small smile break on Little Deer’s pink lips. “You’re telling me Santa doesn’t even know my name?”

“I’m not allowed to know _everything_ ,” Louis confesses sheepishly.

“You’re not helping your case very much, _Louis_.” And to Louis’ surprise, Little Deer holds his hand out. “M’just Harry, but you can still call me Little Deer if you want.”

Louis applauds himself for not melting into a heaping pile of mush right then and there. He shakes _Harry_ ’s hand and only repeats the name about 15 times in his head, because of course Little Deer would have the loveliest name to match his loveliest face and loveliest existence. “ _Harry Styles_ ,” Louis drawls out, testing the words aloud on his tongue. “I think we can stick to with that.”

And when he lets go of Harry Styles’ hand, he tells himself to ignore the rush of blood to his head and the way his heart beats against his chest, like it wants to jump out and be closer to Harry.

 _Fuck_. Louis really needs to get ahold of himself. He’s Santa Claus, for God’s sake.

He claps his hands together. “So! Reindeers, yes?”

He manages to find the front door on his first try – for which he does, shamelessly, applaud himself on – with Harry hot on his tail. Just as his hand settles on the door knob, he turns around. “Here,” he shrugs off his bright red coat, lined with fur on the inside, “it’s a bit nippy out. You’re gonna need to keep warm.”

“But then you’ll be cold,” Harry pouts, refusing to take the coat out of Louis’ hand.

Louis rolls his eyes. _Of course_ selflessness is a thing in his household. “Harold, I live in the North Pole, okay? A little bit of English snow isn’t exactly going to give me hypothermia like it will for you. Now, take the bloody coat,” he insists.

Harry mulls it over for a moment, staring at the coat like it’s his sworn enemy. “ _Fine_ ,” he grumbles, throwing it on.

It’s an infinitely better fit on him than it is on Louis, but even that doesn’t surprise him. Little Deer is, after all, still in his bright yellow banana pajamas.

He grabs a pair of scuffed boots from the shoe rack and steps into them. “I swear to God,” he mumbles under his breath as he squeezes them on, “if this is all a ploy to kidnap me, I’m going to feel no guilt for keeping your jacket.”

“Just trust me, alright?” Louis holds his hand out for Harry once the other man straightens up, his soft face flushed in a way that only the holiday rush can do. “I couldn’t hurt you if I tried, Harry Styles.”

Harry places a tender hand over Louis'. “Okay,” he answers, a little breathless. “I trust you.”

Louis smiles wider than he has his entire life, his cheeks aching with the stretch. “Brilliant.”

He tugs on Harry’s hand and leads them out the door. They’re hit immediately with a gust of cold air, icy flurries still falling from the snow. Happily Street is painted white and Harry holds Louis’ hand tightly, steps close behind him as the walk down to the sidewalk.

“Look,” Louis points to the roof with his free hand. There, covered in a thin layer of snow, stand his three noble reindeer, mouths moving as though in some sort of deep conversation. (Knowing them, probably about who gets the most cookies.) Luckily they’re not facing Louis’ direction, because if they knew he was completely blowing their cover for a single dad with curly hair and banana pajamas, they’d probably force him to walk all the way back to the North Pole.

_“Oh.”_

He looks over and finds Harry’s green eyes impossibly wide, his mouth hung open in awe. “The one at the front, that’s Liam; he’s a total smartarse, but he makes a good leader, has a great sense of direction.”

Harry makes a squeak, just barely not his head.

“The one behind him is Niall. He’s pointless. Does nothing.”

Harry snaps out of his daze to let out an indignant, “ _Heeey_. Be nice, Lou.”

Louis’ heart is not strong enough to cope with the way the nickname sounds coming out of Harry’s beautiful mouth, so he ignores it and continues. “And the one at the end, with the darker antlers? That’s Zayn.”

“What’s Zayn like?” Harry asks curiously, pulling his attention away from his roof to look at Louis.

“He sleeps a lot,” is all Louis has to offer.

“He looks nice.”

“He’s not,” Louis scoffs.

“I think you’re lying.” Harry’s gaze intensifies as he narrows his eyes at Louis, like he’s trying to dig into the other man’s soul. “I think you’re being _cheeky_ ,” he accuses. “Santa’s not supposed to be cheeky!”

Louis gasps, feigning shock. “Until five minutes ago _you_ still thought Santa was just some bloke with a dreadful beard and beer belly!”

“Well, I can’t be blamed for not knowing Santa’s really just a 20-something who goes around making lies about his reindeer!”

And Louis has to stop him right there. “Harold,” he says in his best Serious Voice, placing his free hand against Harry’s chest. “First of all, I’m well over _twenty-something_ , love. Secondly, those saintly reindeer you’re so eager to defend are the same twats that tried to tip over the sleigh whilst flying past the coast of South Africa a few hours back.”

That leaves Harry speechless. He stands there, under the light snowfall of the London sky, his cheeks burned pink from the wind and eyelashes dusted with flurries. He looks like the picture of innocence; the comfort and safety of childhood warmth, even in this bitter cold. “I wasn’t aware Santa was allowed to say twat,” he mumbles slowly, eyes not daring to leave Louis’.

“There’s a lot you’re not aware of, apparently.”

“Can you tell me, then?”

He can’t. He’s not supposed, at least. The last time his cover was nearly blown an entire town of people decided to give him the name Saint Nicholas and created the '80 year old granddad with a gut the size of four Sunday roasts' reputation for him. Went fucking brilliantly, that.

But the way that Harry stares at him, pleading with those big doe eyes, and his brown curls powdered white; there’s just no way that Louis can say no to him.

“Stay for a cuppa, please,” Harry adds just as Louis’ about to speak. “Ess says I make the best cuppas. Unless you want some milk? Or hot chocolate? I can make those too, anything you’d like, really. I think we even have some—”

He’s cut short by Louis forcefully turning him around and pushing him back inside the house. “Get started on that hot chocolate and I’ll be there in a minute, okay?”

Harry spins around when he reaches the front door. “Promise?” he asks, tugging on his bottom lip.

“ _Two minutes_ ,” Louis swears. “I just need to talk to the boys and let them free for the night, I promise.”

Harry takes one last look at Louis – and a quick peek at the reindeer still hanging out on his roof – before heading inside. Louis watches his lean figure walk away and his heart hurts with how badly he just wants to wrap up Harry Styles in his arms and keep him tucked against his chest until the end of time.

Why doesn’t Santa get any gifts for Christmas?

❄❄❄

It’s nearly five in the morning and Harry is almost positive that he’s lost his mind. Two cups of hot chocolate and what’s felt like ten hours of talking later, he’s still trying to wrap his head around the magical creature sitting on the other side of his couch.

 _Louis_ , that’s what he calls himself.

Louis, who just happens to deliver Christmas gifts to billions of little kids all over the world for one night of the year. Who has a sleigh and three menacing reindeers and a bright red coat that Harry never wants to take off. Louis smells like peppermint bark and vanilla. His eyes crinkle at the ends when he laughs; his nose scrunches when he teases Harry on his lack of True Santa Knowledge.

And, plot twist of the fucking century, Harry’s learned: the whole concept of Santa Claus? A complete blunder thanks to a one Niall Horan, who got them caught a few hundred years ago by a couple of drunken Dutch natives that went on to tell their townspeople of a magical old man sprinkling joy and happiness to the world. Niall got impatiently hungry, forgot he wasn’t meant to be seen by humans, a couple of drunks blabbered, and now ‘Santa Claus’ exists instead of just simply ‘Louis’. Close, but no cigar.

He still doesn’t understand the math behind it or how it’s even logically possible, but lucky for him, Louis doesn’t offer any real explanations.

“S’magic,” Louis answers with a grin, taking a sip of his cocoa.

“ _Lou_ —” Harry grumbles in frustration. How can Louis tell him everything he’s ever been told about Santa is a complete and utter farce and then _not_ explain how his reindeer fly or how he delivers all those gifts in just one night? He’s gotten Harry all worked up and now he’ll never be at peace again for as long as he lives because there are still so many things left to know! Like how does Louis get his mail? Does he have to pay his taxes? Is riding a sleigh helpful with a driver's exam? Is there plumbing in the North Pole?

“Stop overthinking it.”

Harry’s frown deepens.

“Look,” Louis sighs. He sets his mug down on the coffee table and scoots over until his thigh meets Harry’s. With only the lights strewn across the tree illuminating the room, Louis’ features are soft and golden; inviting despite the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the crystal blue of his eyes.

Louis snaps his fingers in front of Harry’s face, causing him to jump out of his daze. “Still with me, Styles?” he asks, grinning like he can read all of Harry’s wicked thoughts.

(Can he? Is that a thing that Santa can do? _Fuck_ , he really needs to – _stop_.)

“It’s not all as grand and formal as you think, you know.”

“But what does that _mean_?” Harry whines, throwing his arms in the air.

“It _means_ ,” Louis explains slowly, “that my helpers make the gifts, the elves assign the kids to the lists, and I’m bloody terrible at directions without Liam. I’m really only on duty one night of the year, basically. I can barely take any credit for the holiday at all.”

Harry sags into the couch, tightening Louis’ coat around himself, even though his house is nice and toasty. “That’s not very glamorous,” he decides after a moment’s thought. “I can see why the Dutch chose to spice up your life, mate. You need some street cred.”

Harry wishes he could wrap himself in the sound of Louis’ soft laughter instead.

“’Cos me life’s a bloody Spice Girls song now, huh?” Louis jokes, lips pursed as he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Louis is _fond_ of him, and Harry isn’t going to lie to himself and pretend like he doesn’t notice. He will happily take all that Louis offers him.

“You know the Spice Girls?” Harry asks suddenly, because Louis knowing of the Spice Girls ( _Santa_ knowing the Spice Girls!) is of massive importance.

“I thought we clarified that I wasn’t born yesterday, Harold; of course I know the _Spice Girls_ , jeez.”

He didn’t think it was possible to be awed by Louis any more than he already is, but apparently he was wrong about that too. Harry is pretty sure there are hearts in his eyes and he has to move his hands underneath his thighs just to keep from reaching out for the other man – _barely_ four centimeters away – but he’s got his daughter upstairs and Louis is fucking Santa Claus. Snogging on some random bloke’s couch at dawn is probably not very high up on his agenda.

(And _fuck_ , does Harry want to kiss him. If he wasn’t already aware of Louis’ magical status, those pink lips, so inviting and shiny, would be enough to convince him that Louis is completely out of this universe. No normal human is that beautiful; has eyelashes like feathers and cheekbones like glass. Harry is spellbound and this is the best Christmas of his life.)

“I’ve lost you again.”

Harry blinks. Louis is watching him carefully, head tilted to the side. “What do you do the rest of the year, then?” Harry asks curiously. “If you only work on Christmas Eve and you don’t make the lists or watch the kids or build the toys – what _do_ you do?”

Louis sighs softly and Harry can tell that he’s sleepy, must be exhausted from circling the globe all night. His voice is sleep-warm when he whispers, “Travel, mostly. See what the world is up to when it’s not the holidays.” He brushes his fringe away from his eyes and curls up smaller, resting his head against the back of the cushions. “M’just Louis 364 days out of the year.”

“And where do you stay?”

“Nowhere and everywhere.”

Harry smiles. “Another top secret Santa thing I’m not allowed to know about?”

“Sorry,” Louis tries, biting his lip. “I realize how annoying it must be to—”

“Don’t apologize.” Harry hand moves on its own accord from underneath his thigh to rest on top of Louis’. He tries to keep from squealing when Louis flips his hand over and laces their fingers together. Harry counts to ten in his head and waits for his racing heart to settle before asking, quieter than he means to, “And right now… is this _just Louis_ , then?”

“In all his lackluster glory, yes.”

 _Not lackluster,_ Harry thinks. Louis – without the North Pole and the reindeer and the endless list of homes to visit – is wonderful; infinitely greater than all the made up tales that Harry grew up with, of a secret man who delivers the world its presents in a single night's trip. It was Louis who listened to him talk about Esra for a good 40 minutes straight, not _Santa_ , and it was Louis made him laugh so hard milk flew out of his nose, not _Santa_. Louis is holding his hand, Louis is tracing the beat of his heart against his wrist, Louis is entirely his own, slouched beside him with sleepy blue eyes and welcoming lips.

Louis spends 364 days of the years floating from one place to another, Harry realizes, and that's not much different than his 365th day.

“Where were you planning on going after here?” he asks, because he can’t imagine not having a place to call home.

“Argentina,” Louis answers simply. “One way ticket.”

Harry’s heart picks up its racing. His palm must be grossly sweaty at this point, but Louis doesn’t mention it. Only after a heavy exhale does he manage to stumble out, “Would you like to stay the night, Lou?” Quickly adding in an afterthought, “I know suburban London isn’t exactly Bueno Aires, but no one should have to spend Christmas morning all alone on a plane. Least of all you.”

“H—”

“You can leave whenever you want, I swear, just – take my bed and get a good night’s sleep, please?” Harry pleads, because he’s not above begging. “You’re exhausted, Louis, and I’m not letting you sleep in an airport.”

Louis’ face is expressionless the entire time and Harry is an idiot, probably. Who invites a stranger – the fucking man behind the grand tale of Santa Claus, much less – to sleep in their bed for the night? _On Christmas_.  

It sounds like a recipe for disaster in his head, but then he sees Louis’ lips turn down, ready to refuse, and he can’t keep his distance any longer.

He cups the back of Louis’ neck with his free hand and kisses him, the way he’s been dying to from the very second he saw him; sat on his couch in the dark just hours ago. Louis tastes like marshmallows and chocolate and warmth; like the August sun on his skin. He opens right up against Harry’s mouth, to his surprise, and Harry kisses him, licks into his mouth, lets his body soak in what it’s been aching for.

Louis is a human furnace and Harry feels like he’s on fire with every second that passes because Louis kisses him back. Louis squeezes a hand over his thigh, tugs on his bottom lip, hums into his mouth, and Louis leaves him breathless.

“Stay,” Harry begs when they part, his swollen lips brushing against Louis’ slick, bitten ones. He kisses the corner of Louis’ mouth, because he can now. (And twice more.) “Stay the night. Please.”

Louis lets out a defeated sigh and his sweet breath fans over Harry’s mouth. (Harry kisses him again.) “How am I meant to ever say to no to you?”

“Then don’t,” Harry answers for him, already bringing Louis’ mouth back to his. “Don’t say no to me. Just stay.”

So Louis does.

❄❄❄

Louis wakes up just a few short hours later with an ache in his neck, a gangly body pressed flush against his chest, and a little girl hovering by the side of the couch staring right at him.

“Hullo,” she mumbles sheepishly. “Can you tell my daddy to wake up, pretty please?” She points to Harry, who is sprawled out half on top of him, still wearing his coat and face tucked neatly in the crook of his neck.

 _My daddy_.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Louis is running on minimal sleep and there is a tiny child standing before him, watching him cuddle her father. Esra Styles, this year’s number one on the Nice List, stares at him patiently, hands clasped behind her back, all while Louis can feel her father's morning wood against his hip.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Harry, love, I think it’s time to wake up.” He shakes at Harry’s shoulder, guilt eating him up because of course Little Deer looks like a fucking saint when he sleeps, too.

Harry makes a garbled noise against his neck and instead chooses to nuzzle closer, tightening his arm around Louis’ waist.

Louis hears Esra let out a sigh of defeat and when he turns his head to glance at her, she’s shrugging like it’s no big deal, “It is what it is.”

 _It is what it is,_ Louis repeats in his head.

“I am Esra. Are you one of daddy’s pals?”

Esra’s eyes are big and so blue, like a clear sea in the morning light. Her dark curls are messy, sleep-ruffled, and there are little frogs and aliens on her onesie. She doesn’t resemble Harry exactly, but she’s wonderfully sweet and looks like the kind of kid who kisses her daddy’s booboos for him and makes him wear sparkly bows in his hair so that they can match. (Both of which Louis definitely recalls Harry confirming last night.) He knows that Esra was adopted, but it doesn’t surprise him that Harry has managed to raise his baby to be the sweetest little version of him. He doesn’t doubt that Harry is the best father in the world, and then some.

Louis does as best he can to slip off the couch without waking Harry up. It's tougher than it seems, with Harry’s endless octopus-like limbs, but Louis manages in the end, sighing a little disappointedly as he watches Harry settle against the ghost of his warmth and wrap the quilt around him tighter. It takes all his self-control to tear his eyes away from Harry’s sleeping figure and turn to Esra, crouching down to her height.

“Hi Esra, I’m Louis.”

He holds his hand out for the little girl, but Esra just stares at it for a second before jumping at Louis and squeezing her chubby arms around his neck in a tight hug. Louis is so caught off-guard that he nearly falls back, balancing himself at only the last second as he hugs her in return.

“Hi Lou,” Esra squeaks against his shoulder, where her father’s head just rested minutes ago. “Do you want to open gifts with me?”

“Um, shouldn’t you be doing that with your daddy?”

Esra pulls away with a long, exaggerated sigh, and Louis doesn’t miss the deep pout on her small lips, how her cheeks puff out like a little bulldog’s. Yes, she’s definitely Harry’s child.

“Just one?” Esra pleads. “Pretty please? It can be our secret.”

“Well—”

“Absolutely not,” a voice grumbles from behind them.

Louis turns his head just as Harry rubs the sleep out of his eyes and sits up. His hair is a mess, his lips are kiss-swollen, and it takes him a second to realize his current state before grabbing a pillow to place on his lap. Louis watches him and it feels like his chest needs to expand desperately in order to make room for his overwhelmed heart.

“Daddy!”

Esra launches herself onto the couch where Harry brings her in for a cuddle and places her beside him. The little girl stands to her feet so she can squeeze her arms around her father and ramble in excited squeals and squeaks about _Happy Christmas_ and _I love you_ and _I had a dream last night…_ and _just one gift, please!_

“Alright, alright, just one gift for now,” Harry relents in mid-laughter, returning the kisses Esra had placed all over his face until she calms down and sits down like a nice little lady beside him. “How about we let Louis choose, yeah?”

Louis’ eyes widen at the sound of his name. It’s the first time since they accidentally fell asleep kissing lazily that Harry’s addressed him and Louis doesn’t know why, but for a moment he genuinely thought that Harry would pretend like nothing had happened and kick him out before Esra could even repeat his name.

Instead, what he gets is a warm smile from Little Deerand a gentle, _“Go on, Lou.”_

His eyes jump to Esra. She nods encouragingly at him and mirrors her daddy’s smile, dimples and everything. It’s all the push that Louis needs to stand up and walk over to the towering Christmas tree in the corner of the room, still bright blue and as marvelous as it was last night when it first caught his eye. He scans the various boxes at the base of the tree, probably far too many for just two people, and just as he’s bending over to grab a small green box with dancing penguins on it, he notices the envelope from last night. It’s thin and white and Louis remembers picking it from the sleigh last night and wondering what kind of gift this could possibly be for the nicest child in the world.

The curiosity eats at him and Louis picks the envelope up, walks over to the couch, and hands it to Esra rightfully. The little girl mutters something about _“Can’t read yet, Lou!”_ and immediately hands it over to her father.

“ _What is it what is it what is it_ —” she asks impatiently. She watches intently with wide eyes as Harry carefully tears open at the envelope and pulls out a letter.

“ _To Mr. Harry Styles_ ,” he reads off. “ _We are thrilled to_ …”

And then he stops, mid-sentence, and Louis is left standing before the father and daughter pair, a thousand and one thoughts flying through his head. Is it a promotion? A free car? A new—

“Adoption papers,” Harry breathes out, eyes still scanning the letter furiously. “They were approved. We can bring Rosie home by New Year’s. _Shit_ —”

Somewhere in between Esra’s mind-numbingly loud cheers of _I’m gonna have a sister I’m gonna have a sister I’m gonna have a sister!_ and her little legs jumping off the couch to run across in the room in circles, screaming off the top of her lungs, Harry and Louis meet eyes and this time, it feels like the very first.

Louis sits down next to him, cup a steady hand around his jaw, and presses a kiss to his blotchy cheek. He kisses away a tear or two and hopes, that despite Esra’s excitable volume, Harry can still hear him when he whispers, “Merry Christmas, H.”

Because Harry Styles deserves the entire universe and then some.

**Author's Note:**

> i am back from semi-hiatus mode! happy days! happy christmas, happy holidays!
> 
> [tumblr](http://www.tornorrows.tumblr.com)


End file.
